Truth Is So Unkind
by skybound2
Summary: "You claim to speak of truths, but all you offer me are lies. So be it. Keep your secrets, Solas, if they matter so much." Lavellan knows that there is much the Dalish got wrong, she just wishes she knew how much. Set after "What Pride Had Wrought."
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Truth Is So Unkind (Chapter 1/4)  
**Author:** skybound2  
**Rating:** T  
**Characters**: F!Lavellan/Solas (Dorian in later parts; references to Varric and some minor appearances by Dagna, Cullen, Morrigan, Leliana, Josephine,and Dennet)  
**Word Count**: ~5400 (for this part)  
**Spoilers: **Spoilers for the Solas romance/game ending.  
**Summary: **"You claim to speak of _truths_, but all you offer me are lies. So be it. Keep your _secrets_, **Solas**, if they matter so much." Lavellan knows that there is much the Dalish got wrong, she just wishes she knew _how_ much.  
**Author Notes: **It's possible that these two may own my soul right now, and this story that I've been working on for the last week solid is the current result of my obsession. There is drama, and hurt/comfort, and angst, and humor, and Dorian as the BFF to end all BFFs. Features my Inquisitor, Daleka. (Referenced in my other fic "Head Over Feet." Additional info/screencaps (and art by itsmyfreakin!) of her are available on my tumblr - NOW WITH ART FOR THIS STORY! Please see my profile for a link.) While this is technically a WIP, the bulk of the story IS written, I'm just going through the final stages of editing before posting. I anticipate a week at the most for all parts to go up. Title taken from a lyric in the song 'Subterranean' by _Foo Fighters_ (which is on my current personal playlist for these two). Some minor Elvish used throughout this (translations will be included at the end of each chapter). Enjoy!

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**Truth Is So Unkind**

**(Chapter 1)**

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There are stories - legends in the making - whispered about the leader of the Inquisition. Tavern songs and chantry-styled verses being passed from ear to ear amongst the people of Thedas, carried as easily as pollen on the wind.

And while, as with all legends, these stories have a kernel of truth, with each telling the exploits of the oft-named 'Herald of Andraste' grow ever wilder; expanding in size until they grow so large that they threaten to bury their subject under the weight of expectation.

Many of the tales begin with the Herald's daring actions as she battled the demons of the breach; extolling her bravery in the face of what others would see as certain defeat, a sword touched by holy fire in one hand, a shield with the sunburst sigil of the chantry gleaming upon it strapped to her forearm, and an army of the faithful bowed at her side as she raised a palm to the sky and bent it to her blessed command.

Others speak meekly in wonder at her caring for the little folk; spinning yarns made of virtues unparalleled. They tell of her habit of lending aid in the most unlikely of fashions - from the finding of a wayward druffalo, to the return of a widowed woman's lost wedding band. They laugh as they tell of the Herald fetching a wayward son - off playing at war, while his mother lay at dying at home - and tugging him back by the ear to his worried father with a promise that he'll never stray far from home again.

They marvel at how she would appear with a stockpile of meats or blankets at the exact moment they were most needed, as if she could hear their desperate pleas for food and warmth through the Fade - and mayhaps she could. Some cry silent tears of joy as they recall how they would have lost their husband, wife, father, mother, sister, brother, child had the Herald not arrived in a most auspicious manner with a healer in tow, and a pledge of ongoing assistance to the ailing and injured refugees of the mage-templar war. While still others scoff at such a mundane explanation, claiming that the Herald laid hands upon them herself, healing their wounds and guiding them from the door of death personally - never mind that the Herald is no mage. For of course, the woman chosen by the Maker to lead them to salvation is capable of such things.

A tale of a rift sealed, or a dragon bested, with the aid of many a potion, several broken bones, and her exhausted, but ever-loyal companions as her saving grace by her side, grows until it is a _Known Truth_ that the Inquisitor has fought both giants and dragons alike - single-handed - and come out with nary a scratch. While many know that to be utter hogwash, many more believe it to be true.

For it is _easy_ to have faith in that which is beyond comprehension. Easy to believe that a person such as the one painted in the tales may be able to deliver the common and noble folk alike from the evils that plague the world. It is much less easy to believe such things possible when in the hands of one no more exceptional than themselves.

For surely, they would not be capable of such feats...would they?

But, as with all legends, a few take a darker path in their telling. Muttered words of the savagery of the Dalish elf come to lead them all to their ruin. They say that she sneaks into the cities under the cover of night and sinister magic, and steals away infants from their beds to fuel the blood mages in her employ. They seethe at any that will listen that she means to wipe humans from the face of Thedas in a bid to raise the elves back to power.

They tremble in fear as they tell of her gleeful murder of the Divine; of how she stalked from the Fade, white hair bathed red in the blessed Justinia's blood, a fanged smile upon her tawny face, and a charred maul - cursed by the seven magisters of Tevinter themselves and gifted to their disciple, whom has promised to deliver them to the heart of the Black City - held aloft over her head as she laid claim upon the souls of the faithful, twisting them to her purpose.

More wretched than a thousand demons is she, the Heretic Descendant of Shartan.

What these tales miss - as all legends do - are the simple truths that breathe life into a person, separating them from a caricature woven into a tapestry destined to gather dust upon the forgotten walls of a Keep. They fail to mention that the Herald of Andraste, the appointed leader of the Inquisition, is a terror to wake in the mornings. So much so that her companions draw straws daily to see who is tasked with waking her when afield, while her advisors set a rotating schedule for when they are within the walls of Skyhold so that no one person may be in her sour graces for long.

There are no words wasted on how she enjoys tea in the evenings - with a touch of honey; or that she detests lemon, except when sweetened to the point of being nigh on unrecognizable. That she - as a Dalish elf - is ashamed of her growing fondness for thick-soled, wool-lined boots, and that in protest of her changing preference, she insists on greeting all visiting dignitaries bare of feet; much to her Ambassador's chagrin.

They neglect to mention that she visits the stables daily, joining the master of horses in his duties as he grooms and feeds the mounts, tasking herself with the care of those she rides most often - including the mucking out of their pens. Or that she is a lousy hand at cards, and even worse at chess.

No one ever recalls how in her - ever more limited - spare time, she can be found squirreled away on the battlements overlooking the mountains, taking out her frustrations on a hapless block of wood with naught but a whittling knife and a scrap of sanding paper. A habit - and skill - acquired and perfected since childhood as a means of dealing with her inability to simply lob the head off anyone who pisses her off. (Which, since being forced to regularly deal with the constant requests and demands of nobility from all corners of Thedas has resulted in a minor armor of tiny figurines left scattered all over Skyhold.)

Nor do they mention how, when the pressures and annoyances that come from being thrust into a position of immeasurable power and prestige with scarcely a chance to contemplate the consequences become too much for even whittling to abate, she seeks out the comfort of a particular learned apostate with a penchant for the Fade and frescos.

And for certain, they would never breathe a word of how, on one notable occasion, the Inquisitor had to be held back from throttling the personal Court Mage for Empress Celene _cum_ Magical Advisor to the Inquisition.

At least, not if they didn't want to end up locked in the dungeons by one, sweet yet scary as hell, aforementioned Ambassador.

_-Excerpt from a draft copy of 'Legends of Thedas: Collected Tales' by Varric of House Tethras; found balled up, and charred at the edges, in a rubbish bin destined for the compost pile outside Skyhold. _

_-A note, scrawled in a looping wide-spaced hand at the bottom of the parchment reads "Dungeons are so _common_, Varric. I'm certain that were an Ambassador of sufficient means and suitable influence within the ranks of the Inquisition interested in silencing such tales, a more efficient and _creative_ solution would be found." The signature has been burnt off. _

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~~~\/~~~

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"LET ME GO, CULLEN! I'M NOT GOING TO KILL HER, I'M JUST GOING TO STRANGLE HER A LITTLE BIT!"

Daleka Lavellan rages, desperate to pry herself loose from the hold the Commander of the Inquisition armies has on her person; her arms locked at an uncomfortable angle within his grip, keeping her back pressed to his front.

"Be that as it may, Inquisitor - OW! _Maker_ your elbows are sharp!"

Daleka doesn't pay him any mind, instead she seizes on the opportunity that the pain she's caused him has provided, resulting as it has in a slackening of his grip and offering her the chance to _almost_ dive over the war table and get her hands around the scrawny neck of the dark-haired witch a short distance away.

Unfortunately, the table provides enough of a barrier to allow the witch to step back, and the Commander to resume his hold.

Daleka grunts at the sudden pressure on her upper back from where Cullen's hands lock and tug, and Morrigan...Morrigan _laughs_. "Yes, I can see now, how you were _clearly_ the better suited party to drink from the well, Inquisitor! Such patience and care you take in your actions. Surely, _you_ will be able to puzzle out the meanings of the multitudes of voices with untold millennia worth of knowledge being shouted - no _whispered_ \- at you."

Morrigan hisses the words at Daleka, venom in every syllable, and Daleka snarls, but it is Leliana who speaks. "Morrigan, perhaps this is not the best time for you to _bate_ the Inquisitor." The words are made as a statement of fact, and not a question. Something for which Daleka would be appreciative, were she in a state of mind that would allow for such a complex emotion.

Which she absolutely is _not_ at present.

Morrigan slides her gaze from Daleka's, her posture remaining tense as she meets the bard's gaze. "Perhaps not, Spymaster." She fixes a look of long-suffering superiority upon Daleka so perfect in its execution, that Daleka wonders if she practises it in that mirror she carts around. "I shall take my leave. I will be in the gardens, Inquisitor, should you require _assistance_ with all the wisdom the well has imparted upon you."

The witch's exit is made final by the echoing thud of the war room doors closing in her wake. Daleka takes three deep breaths following her departure to calm her still swollen anger, before slumping in the Commander's hold, signaling that it is safe for him to release her - which he does in short order, an apology on his lips. She waves it off - this is after all not the first time he has restrained her in such a manner - and moves to lean her weight on her palms against the war table. She bows her head - eyes closed - in an effort to further center herself.

The audacity of the _shemlan_ witch, for acting as if the well - one of the few remaining pieces of history of Daleka's people - was something the chasind woman was _owed_. As if it was her _due_! And for what? For having supped upon the broken history of the elves via_ books_, as one may partake of a steak, knowing not what it means to be slaughtered for the meat?

For it is the _elves_ that have been slaughtered. The elves that were led like cattle to the butcher and strung up in the iron chains of slavery. Bleed of their culture, of their language, of their sense of _self_. For the Imperium, for Orlais. Left at the _mercy_ of shemlan for age upon age, until the few that remain are left scuttling in dirty city streets, or begging for scraps from within the gilded cage of a _noble_man's home, or fighting highwaymen and wolves alike for the chance to lay their head undisturbed upon a patch of water-logged ground in the open-aired embrace of a cold mid-winters night. Or - worst of all - reduced to bickering and fighting and shunning their brethren for transgressions as uncontrollable as the place of their birth, rather than embracing one another as _kin_.

And that _witch_ would have had Daleka deliver the last great wealth of knowledge of her people into the hands of a petulant _shem_ such as she?

The idea would be laughable if it weren't so infuriating.

Daleka's internal preoccupation does nothing to settle her nerves, though the concerned, lilting voice of her Ambassador manages to curb her fixation. "Lady Inquisitor, would you care for a calming draught?"

"No." Daleka grits the word out through her teeth; and busies herself by counting the beats of her heart, waiting for them to slow enough to feign calm. She remembers the pleasantries Josephine has painstakingly tried to install upon her when she reaches fifteen. "Thank you, Josephine. I just - I'm going to get some air. If you would all excuse me."

She is out the door and down the hall and through to Josephine's office before any of them can speak a word elsewise.

She makes it as far as the door heading out to the throne room before she is forced to stop. For though the voices from the well may have started as whispers, subtle highs and lows carried like wisps through her mind, they are not content to remain as such. Instead they increase in volume with each footfall. She leans her head against the cool wood of the door; pressing her forehead against it until the pain of the external overrides the internal. Helping to dull the echoing inside her skull.

Shouts from the so-called heavens indeed. All clamoring for her attention, just like everyone else in this Creators-forsaken Hold.

With an inhale, Daleka steels herself and swings open the door, only to come face to face with a pestering over-dressed peacock of an Orlesian standing on the other side. With a growl, she sends him skittering away - eyes wide and cheeks pale behind his ridiculous mask.

Certain that she is in the clear, she makes her way to the door leading to her chambers, but a perky "Inquisitor! Inquisitor Lavellan! Do you have a moment?"

"No, Dagna. I do not."

"But, Inquisitor-"

She whirls on the arcanist, the throbbing in her skull threatening to send her to her knees; and that she cannot have, not here, where gossips and spies abound. "I said: NOT. NOW."

The other woman's face falls, eyes and mouth relaying hurt and confusion at the unwarranted chastisement. Daleka feels a pang of regret, but is in no position to offer more than a muttered "Find me later, and we'll talk."

She hopes for a reprieve upon slamming the door to her quarters shut behind her, but the volume, the tension, does not lesson. Instead it grows.

And grows.

_And grows._

Until the shouts became shrieks so shrill that she fears her brain may just liquefy and be done with it. With leaden steps she manages to climb the stairs to the upper level, but fumbles when she reaches the table she has set by the balcony doors, where a dozen carefully carved chess pieces - in varying stages of progress - reside.

With a throaty growl she hurls the entire table end over end, sending the precious pieces of wood scattering across the room, and for an unfortunate few, over the edge of the balcony.

There is no way to save them. She doesn't even try.

Instead she collapses to the floor, her knees ricocheting on the cold stone with a thunk that she knows will ache for many nights. But she can't care. Not now. Not with the reverberating ache, like a thousand anvils being smashed down upon with a thousand iron hammers - all in unison - inside her skull. She digs her hands into the shaved skin at her temples, fingers slip sliding into the long braided strands of hair at the top of her scalp, and tugging; tugging, _tugging. _Seeking a purchase just beyond her grasp. She rocks back and forth on bruised knees as she _pulls_, desperate for relief. Moisture pools in the corners of her eyes, and it is that indignity that rips the howl from her throat.

And like how the built up pressure in a jar of Antivan fire causes it to explode upon impact and then spread out - molten at its center, but ever cooler at the edges - with her shout, the pain begins to ebb. Until there is but a blistering warmth at the base of her skull, threading down through her torso and limbs, and out towards her fingers and toes. The mark in her palm flares bright a moment, then dulls.

And just like that, it's over. The voices still present, but quieted to something approaching a conversational level in a crowded hall. Tiny bits and pieces flick in and out of range, but a few remain loud enough in volume to demand immediate attention.

So it is those that she focuses on, as she crawls on hands and knees and attempts to collect the precious carvings. Her hand slips on something sharp, and she yanks it back with a hiss, tiny droplets of blood dripping onto a broken piece of mirror laying on the floor. She hadn't realized, hadn't_ cared, _that the handheld looking glass - a gift from Vivienne before the Empress's ball - was on the table when she'd upended it so unceremoniously, evidentially shattering the expensive item.

Her eyes are drawn away from the spreading red on the silvery surface until she is focusing instead on her own face in the mirror. The lines of her vallaslin seeming to gleam in her reflection, the thread of constant chatter from the well narrows down to this one thing. A wealth of history, in agonizing detail, is poured into her all-too-absorbent mind. Stricken, she lifts her injured hand to her face, tracing the edges of the once beloved tattoo - the mark of adulthood she'd worn with such _pride, _even if her fellow clan mates never quite understood why she'd selected Dirthamen, the _Keeper of Secrets_, over the Craftsman, given the hours she'd spent perfecting her chosen art.

Of course, she'd never really felt the _need_ to explain it to anyone either. Her reasons were hers, and hers alone. Keeper Deshanna had laughed when Daleka had barked her response at the doubters, and proclaimed to the clan that if they needed evidence of her devotion to Dirthamen, they need seek no further, for she'd just proven herself as any true acolyte of the Secret Keeper would.

But now, as she paints a bloody streak down her cheeks, those memories are pushed far, far behind, replaced by what the well reveals regarding the true nature of the vallaslin. Nausea flares up in time with the sudden burst of knowledge, and she flings herself bodily away from the broken mirror; skittering into the corner of the balcony where a chess piece teeters precariously on the edge, much like her sanity.

She grabs a hold of the piece before it can fall - this one was to be completed in the likeness of her Keeper in place of the standard King, but she'd been having difficulty getting the hands just right - and holds it tight in her bloodied palm. At a loss, she tugs her legs into her chest so that she may rest her head against them while she tries to remember how to breathe.

It is some hours later, long past the dinner hour, when Solas finds her, still settled in the same position upon the balcony. Limbs and neck stiff, blood congealed in spatters on the floor and her person - she imagines the picture that paints is less than comforting.

"_Ma Vhenan_?"

"Solas?" She lifts her aching head in the direction of the voice she knows and loves so well, eager for the relief she is sure will come with his arrival. He's never failed to make her feel more at ease after all, like the burdens of the world don't rest upon her shoulders, and they are she is only a woman in love with a man - but looking upon him this time is like staring at some twisted remnant of a dream.

His features blur and merge with ghosts given life within her mind by the well. And each wary step he takes twists until it is no longer Solas, but a massive four-legged beast stalking towards her. The image flickers from view as he passes from the main room and onto the balcony, and for a moment, he is Solas once more.

But before either shock or relief can set in, he morphs again, only this time his sleekly shaven scalp is decorated with thick twists of hair that reach down his back; baubles and glittering gems tied within the dark auburn dreads, highlighted by a small bleached white skull nestled against his forehead like an odd-sort of crown. His bearing, and clothing turns regal, with dense white fur framing the deep "V" at the neck of his tunic, highlighting the wolf jawbone necklace he is never without, pressed close to the smooth alabaster skin of his chest. As he crouches next to her, one hand lifting as if to touch her cheek, but remaining just on the periphery, she catches sight of golden loops glinting in the sun along the shell of his ear.

An ear that she has traced with fingers, teeth and tongue enough times to know that he wears no such adornments. That no trace of such exists even as scarring or toughened skin. She shakes her head, once, roughly, trying to erase the images from her sight. When she looks back at him, the ghosts hover still, stretching out along his nose into it becomes what is unmistakably a snout - and there far too many eyes - but she forces herself to focus past that, and slowly the images fade away like smoke caught in a breeze, until it is just her Solas kneeling before her, concern writ plan as day upon his face.

"The _vir'abelasan_?

She opens her mouth to speak, but has no words to explain - so uncertain is she as to _what _exactly is happening to her - so she opts for a nod instead. He holds her gaze, eyebrows pulled down, and a frown marring his features, before he gives a tight nod of his own in response.

He moves from her then - the distance between them shamefully allowing her a chance to catch her breath. She watches in a daze as he goes about cleaning up her mess, with no more overlays from the well to distract her from his activities. The table is set to rights first, then the broken shards of the mirror carefully collected and discarded. Each chess piece - with the exception of those now lost outside the walls of Skyhold, and the one to which she still clings - its half-finished shape embedded into her palm - found and placed back on the table along with her crafting materials. When that is done, he makes his way to the basin of water in her closet, and returns to her side, a wet cloth warmed by his magic in his hand.

With care, he clears the blood from first her face, then peels open her hand, he frowns at the blood-stained carving held tight within, before tucking it with care into the belt of his tunic. He then slides the cloth along each finger, along the underside of her nails, and finally against her palm. The wound was minor, and has already scabbed over, but he pushes a gentle pulse of magic through her regardless, healing it fully.

Blue eyes heavy with worry seek out hers. It would be more comforting, she thinks, if there weren't two extra pairs flickering in and out of focus upon his face. "Better?"

Again, she has no words - the knowledge of the well may be fueled by the lore imparted on her since childhood, trying to reveal this truth to her, but they are the both of them warred by the desperate denial of her heart - yet a nod is still within her capability. His hands close around hers, the warmth of them a balm against her skin. "You're freezing, _ma lath_. How long have you been out here?" Daleka shakes her head, and Solas doesn't press for more. He just squeezes her hand and says, "Come. Let us get you inside."

The thought of moving into the room while his face continues to ebb and flow between beast and man, lover and stranger, sends panic skittering through her chest.

She hates herself for it.

"I...can't. Not yet."

Solas makes no attempt to convince her; instead only gifting her a tiny, understanding smile that is thankfully not replaced with anything else by the well. "One moment then."

She watches as he moves into her room once more, a flick of his wrist sets the lamps to light and the logs in the hearth to burning. She hears the clinking of ceramic, followed by the sound of water being poured.

When he returns, he presses a heated mug into her hands - the scent of bergamot and honey wafting to her nose from within. "Drink."

She holds his gaze as she takes a tentative sip, only to have her eyelids flutter shut and a sigh escape her throat at the taste. The drink is made exactly to her liking, but with an underlying hint of..._elfroot_? It's delicious. And soothing. Just as she is certain he intended. Solas may shun the beverage as detestable, but it is certainly not for his inability to make a perfect cup. "Thank you."

Seeming pleased, he departs once more, only to return a moment later with a blanket. The one she'd gotten in Val Royeaux after he'd begun to spend more nights with her than without. She'd wanted something more...welcoming than the silken monstrosity her room had been prepared with initially. Something in which they could lose themselves together.

And to that end, the blanket has been a phenomenal success, for she cannot count the number of mornings they have spent wrapped around one another, buried beneath its warmth, in a vain attempt to block out the cares of the outside world.

She swallows down the remains of the tea, relishing the heat of it as it runs down her throat, and sets the mug aside. He slips the blanket around her, carefully pulling it down so that the tips of her exposed feet are covered, and then moves towards her back. Gently, he maneuvers her forward, allowing enough room so that he may slide behind her. She stiffens at the action at first, but finds that it is easier to have him close when she is not looking right at him. And _oh_, how she still wants him to be close, despite the insanity that the well is slowly feeding her the longer he is near.

He tucks her against his chest, strong legs cradling her on either side, and harms wrapping tight around her. He presses a tender kiss to her temple, drawing it out into another, and another. And despite everything, she feels the tension wash away from her limbs, her spirit knowing that she is somehow safe here - no matter the words of the well.

"_Ir abelas, ma sa'lath._ I should not have let you drink from the well."

Daleka snorts. "_Let_ me? I do not recall the decision being yours."

"You sought my counsel on the matter, Vhenan." His hand slips into hers, turning it so that her marked palm is facing up, the green glow pulsing with the soft strokes of his long fingers as he curls them in and out and up, pressing their hands palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip; flexing them together in a rhythmic motion. "I should have stated my concerns more plainly. I regret now that I did not."

"And then what would we have done?" She tilts her head up, just enough so that she can see the dip of his chin where it graces her cheek, her lips close enough to press a kiss to the cleft there, if she were to so choose. "Allowed Morrigan to drink? Left it for Corypheus?"

His free hand smooths a hair back out of her eyes, following the line to trace over the tip of her ear as he presses her head closer to his neck. So close, she can feel the brush of his lips against her forehead when he speaks. "We could have neutralized it - removed the enchantments so that there would have been nothing for him to find but a bathing pool."

She pulls away enough to allow her to whip her head around, slack-jawed. "You'd have desecrated the well? Destroyed it?!"

He presses his lips together in a thin line, brows tilting down, and eyes heavy as he stares back. He cups her face with a palm - one thumb stroking the bone of her cheek. "It would have been kinder, in the end."

Her lip curls as it is want to do, her typical curse at being treated as something delicate, fragile, heavy at the back of her throat - _Dread Wolf take your kindness! _\- but no sooner are the words conjured within her mind, then she chokes them back. Sudden comprehension flooding her.

_No. No it cannot be. Creators, NO. _

She looks at him again, expecting the vision of the six-eyed beast from the well to return - to give her some further _proof_ that her lover is...is...but there is nothing. Nothing but the Solas she has grown to love so well watching her with soft, worried eyes.

It drains the fight right out of her. Whatever nonsense the well is trying to convince her of, she will not accept it with a blind eye and a fearful heart.

Afterall, just because the well is a source of ancient elven memories, who's to say that they are _right_? That they have not been altered by time, or skewed by perception?

No. She will not chose to believe them without proof. Decision made, she forces a tiny smile on her face as she shakes her head. "Too late now, I suppose."

With a murmur of agreement, he slides his hand under the hefty braid of her hair and onto her neck; guiding her to rest her forehead upon his. "_Ma_ _ghilana na isala, vhenan_."

She allows her body to sink into his embrace, "Just hold me."

So he does. And soon after, she finds the peaceful oblivion of a dreamless sleep.

When she wakes, the moon is high in the sky, bathing the balcony and its occupants in its benevolent glow. Solas shifts behind her, a grunt, and a tiny hiss evidence that while he had provided her with a cushion, he was left to sleep propped up against stone, and it has done him no favors.

She feels for him, this man whose name she is not even show she truly knows. It loosens the knot of uncertainty winding its way within her gut, making her want nothing more than to curl further into his arms, and drown out the well's harsh claims with whispered words of love.

So Daleka eases from his embrace, giving her room to place a hand on the side of his face and turn it towards hers. A crease of worry is present between his closed eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down as if something in the Fade is troubling him.

She does not want to imagine what that may be.

Instead she presses her lips to his in a chaste kiss, lingering at the edge as his eyes come open. She says nothing, just moves to stand, the blanket they've shared wrapped about her shoulders still, and reaches out her hand to help him rise.

He slides his calloused palm against hers, and the tingle that dances up her arm at the contact is as pleasant as it is familiar. With a curious, but happy smile he follows her lead to the bed.

Where she does her best to block out reality for a few more hours, with only his arms and a well-loved blanket to shield her.

~TBC

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**Elvish Translations: **

_Ma Vhenan: _My Heart

_Vir'abelasan_: The place of the way of sorrows

_ma lath_: my love

_Ir abelas, ma sa'lath.: _I'm sorry, my one love.

_Ma_ _ghilana na isala, vhenan._: Loosely translated as "Tell me what you need, heart." (This is my own splicing together of canon terms to try and make a usable phrase. Made up languages are a devil to work with.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Notes: **This chapter sort of got away from me, forcing me to add a fourth chapter to this story in order for it to be complete. I'm a little nervous about this one as a result, and so i spent quite a bit of time tweaking it to get it ready for posting. Here's hoping it works! Some dialogue in this part co-opted from the game and twisted to suit my purposes. You'll know it when you see it. As always, I hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter 2**

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Worry keeps Solas half-awake throughout the night, content to lay upon his side with Daleka's head resting in the curve of his shoulder. He threads his hands through her hair, undoing the braid, and scratching his nails lightly against the shaved sides of her scalp, and down the back of her neck the way that their nights spent together have taught him she prefers. Unconscious though she may be, Daleka responds to the tender caresses with breathy sighs and a twitching upwards at the corner of her lips.

He ducks his head into the loosened strands of her hair, indulging in deep pulls of her scent, burning it into memory for that inevitable time that he does his best to not think on. Though in the aftermath of Mythal's temple and the well, the churning acid in his stomach warns him that they would both be better served if he'd start to think on it, and soon.

He'd been so _furious_ when they'd first arrived back at Skyhold through the Eluvian. Internally roaring in rage at how Lavellan had so willfully _bound_ herself to another. To _anyone at all_. As distasteful as it may be to see the vallaslin upon her face, she's never truly been a _slave_ before. Never been subject to anyone's will but her own - no matter how she may grumble at the demands placed upon her as Inquisitor, those choices are still ultimately _hers. _

But now… no matter how he may think on Mythal with the long-lasting affection of a dear friend, to have Lavellan be _bound _to her? It was a fate crueler than any he could imagine, and certainly not one that she deserved.

But then again, she deserves so much better than what the hapless fumblings of his choices have wrought upon the world. Upon _her_.

And she deserves so much better than anything he has to offer. For what has he given her, save lies and omissions? Promises broken before they were ever given? And a mark upon her hand that would not be there if it weren't for his actions; drawing the attention of those he calls enemy on to her?

And he has so very many enemies.

So while yes, he'd been furious with her choice - perhaps unjustifiably so, as she was only ever working off of half-truths and incomplete speculations that he made no true effort to correct - he'd also been undeniably and wholeheartedly, _scared_. Frightened by the thought of the pain that the well would inflict upon her, frightened of what price it would demand.

Frightened by what she would _learn_.

And yet he'd not done more to stop her. Done barely anything at all, in fact. Even gone so far as to stick stubbornly to the guise of the simple apostate scholar that he's so carefully cultivated, agreeing that such ancient knowledge could be useful without offering up any better alternatives as to how to obtain it. Unwilling to unmask himself to save her.

Just another regret to add to the long list of them scarring his soul.

After their return from the Temple, he'd waited to go to her rooms until he'd be certain that he'd gotten both fury and fear in check. Hoping to, perhaps, be able to discuss the situation with some measure of calm. Only to find her curled in on herself upon the balcony, the remains of her precious carvings scattered to all corners of the room, and tracks of blood leading the way to her side. The memory of the confused terror with which she looked at him as he approached her would haunt his dreams for years to come.

He strokes a hand down along her shoulder, following the slope of her side and letting it come to rest at the generous curve at her waist, just to remind him that she is still here, well within reach. His Heart snuffles in his embrace, one hand squeezing where it keeps a loose hold upon his bicep, a contented murmur slipping past her lips that sounds suspiciously like "_ma lath_" has his very heart seizing in his chest.

The urge, the _want_ and desperate _need_ to protect this woman from damage – nevermind that she is far from a fragile doll - to free her from the machinations of his own making, as well as those of others, nearly obliterates all sense.

In the arrogance of his youth, he'd have razed cities to the ground if it meant she was bound to no one's will but her own. Free to be the rare and marvelous spirit that he has come to know and cherish. In the eyes of many, he'd done much worse for no cause as worthy.

But he is no longer that same youth, and he cannot let the whole world burn, not even for her.

Though it matters not if he would, for without the orb, he has little hope of accomplishing such a feat.

Wilted and waned as he is, there is little he has to offer, little that he can do to show her the true extent of his affections. To make certain that she is aware - down into the depths of her spirit - that what they have, that what he feels for her, is so very _real_ \- no matter how it may end.

Because it will, of that much he is certain. He nuzzles his cheek against hers, reveling in the peace her nearness brings, while it remains.

As it is, there is really only one thing that he can think to offer her so as to shed some measure of light on what she means to him.

_The truth. _

He owes her that much. Even if it means that he loses her for good - she was never his to keep, no matter how he may wish it so.

A decision of sorts made, he reluctantly pulls out of her arms, just as the moon disappears beyond the horizon, heralding the coming dawn, and pads silently from the room to put his plans in motion.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Solas rouses Daleka with tender kisses. Placing one first upon her brow, then moving down to the curve of her cheek, and dusting over the bridge of her nose; placing one with care on one eyelid, then the other. He skips past her lips to ghost one over her chin before following the line of her jaw up to her ear.

"Wake up, _ma vhenan_."

As much as she is enjoying the attention, Daleka grumbles, ducking her head into his chest; a muffled "don't wanna" escaping her in a drowsy whine. Solas chuckles, and slides a hand to the back of her neck, lifting her face to his where he presses a toying kiss to her lips; pulling back just as she begins to respond. He does it again, and again, and again. The smile on his lips growing in time with her annoyance, which shows itself in tiny huffs and growls, right before she lurches forward to meet his lips with her own, delving into his mouth with her tongue and twining it deeply with his.

Her hands scramble up the front of his tunic, grasping it in tight fists and pulling him down to her. He holds himself back by bracing his hands against the bed on either side of her bod, though she can feel his resolve wavering as she nips at his lips, soothing the bites with long, drawn out suckles, her tongue swiping over the seam but darting away when he tries to reel her back in. A low rumble escapes his throat at her denial, and she feels victory within reach as he bends his arms at the elbow to try and bridge the gap between their bodies.

But of course, she denies him this, breaking from his mouth with a gasp; gratified to see the way that his blue eyes have blown black. She gifts him a wicked grin as she loosens her hold on his tunic, laying her palms flat upon his chest, and _shoves. _

She grabs at the blanket as he tumbles off of her and over the side of the bed, and wraps herself up in its warmth, snuggling down into the softness of her pillow in victory.

From the floor, she hears him laugh, a full-bodied guffaw. She expects the bed to dip to warn her of his retaliation, but she is given no such warning. Instead, he manages to yank the blanket from over her head without jostling the mattress. "I said, wake up!"

"And I said: _don't wanna!"_ Daleka fights his continued attempts to unravel the cocoon she has made for herself, but in the end, she is left blanket-less on top of the mattress, with Solas kneeling over her, breathless with laughter and a wide smile illuminating his face.

Her memory tries to kickstart in that moment, free as it now is from the trappings of sleep and her typical morning fog - trying to overlay some of what the well had showed her the night before onto the visage of the man above her, but she tunes it out.

Clearly something has been lost in translation from the well to her, because Daleka just cann_ot_ see howthis man could be the Dread Wolf.

It doesn't make any kind of sense.

Forcing the thoughts away, she huffs out a breath of air, and holds his gaze, knowing from experience that to continue to fight him on waking is a lost cause. Well acquainted with the tells of her giving in, he tilts his head down to meet her in a light kiss; leaning his forehead to hers after their lips part. "Will you rise now?"

"Yes. Though I don't see why we need to be out of bed so early. The sun is barely up."

"I have plans for us today."

She raises an eyebrow at him, "Oh?"

"Yes. We'll be departing from Skyhold before the morning's fast is broken. And before you ask, I've already packed provisions, so you needn't worry about going hungry."

She watches as he moves off the bed and into her dressing chamber, where she can hear him gathering up items and the rustle of clothing. He returns moments later with her traveling pack in one hand, and one lone gauntlet in the other. He tosses the latter at her. Muscle memory is the only reason she manages to catch it.

"What? But Solas, I have duties to attend-"

"I've cleared your schedule with Josephine. There are few minor items you've been requested to attend to while we are away, but I doubt they will take up much of our time."

Her mouth turns down in a frown, annoyance at his presumptive actions welling up inside of her. "You cleared my schedule? When were you planning to tell me this?"

"I just did."

She growls at him. "Solas."

He sighs, and slides back down to sit beside her on the bed; reaching out a hand to tangle with hers, thumb playing over the backs of her knuckles. She watches, mesmerized as she so often is by the contrast in their skin-tones; with his so pale against her darker hue. On sleepless nights, she's passed time tracing the blue threads of his veins beneath the skin; mapping the tiny freckles jumping out here and there along his wrist, and forearm.

"After the Temple of Mythal and...the _vir'abelasan, _you have earned a break from your duties, _ma vhenan_. It may be the last chance you will have for such. And I believe that is better accomplished away from Skyhold. Do you not agree?"

She grunts her agreement. "How long will we be gone?"

"A week, most likely. A day or two longer, perhaps, if we decide to take our time."

Her blood heats at the way his voice dips at the end, at the subtle suggestion of why their return may be delayed. She cannot deny the appeal of such a getaway, though the temptation that she would have felt just two days ago at sneaking away with him is tempered by the continued ramblings of the well at the back of her skull.

"Will you come, _vhenan_?"

Daleka sighs, striving to sound put-out, but not quite succeeding in her attempt- her affection audible to even her own ears. "I suppose. Since you've already gone to the trouble to arrange it and all. Will you tell me where we are going at least?"

He surprises her with a jubilant kiss, her face framed in both his palms, before he bounds off the bed. From the corner of her eye she sees his hand swipe something from the end table by her bed that looks suspiciously like one of her unfinished chess pieces. Though it happens so fast, she can't be sure. And she can't see the point in case. "Yes. After you are dressed, and we are on our way. I would rather not lose anymore daylight. Don your armor, but do not worry about the rest of your gear, it has already been addressed."

~~~\/~~~

Contrary to Solas's promise, he does not speak of where they are headed aside from a general set of directions. South first, down the mountains; then east and around Lake Calenhad, further into Ferelden.

"The destination is not what is important, Vhenan."

"It'd be easier to not focus on the destination if I knew where we were _going_, Solas."

He just laughs, and the sound lifts her heart - as it often does - and she lets the unanswered query go, relaxing into the warmth and solidity of her mount beneath her, and taking a moment to enjoy the passing scenery in a way she has not yet done since they first arrived at Skyhold.

It's always just been a means to an end before, riding hard into Skyhold with news, or wounds to be tended. Meandering in at a sleepy pace after a particular trying outing; or racing out of the gates to any number of destinations where she is needed, '_post-haste Inquisitor!_'

Now that she is bothering to take the time to focus, she's surprised to discover that despite her having spent so little time paying attention to her surroundings on previous journeys, the path from Skyhold has become a familiar friend. She knows just where the branches hang low, letting her duck with ease beneath them instead of the typical mad-dash swipe of her arm to knock them out of the way.

She knows where the ground dips, or a nasty rock outcropping will cause her Hart difficulties, and can make the conscious effort to maneuver him around them, rather than depending upon him to do it on his own, and praying she is not thrown.

It's odd, and a bit disconcerting. She's spent so much of her life moving from location to location with her clan. Sleeping under the stars on warm nights, or in aravels when it rained. She'd never been to one place so often as to been able to tell by memory alone where the troubles lie. She's never been to one location often enough to call it _home_. Home has always meant family, friends, her _clan_.

Not a _place_.

But the road from Skyhold makes her feel _at home _and she is not certain what to do with such an emotion, or how it brings into sharp focus just how much has changed for her since the Conclave.

The first day of their travels, they encounter little else but wilderness and a handful of scouts - all of whom greet her with the now customary hand to their hearts and tiny bows.

That is something else she doesn't think she'll ever get used to; though she tolerates it much better now, after hours of frustrating training with Josephine.

They spend the first night camped out beneath the stars in a field at the base on an ancient tree. Bedrolls slid tight together; bodies warming one another and heated sighs of devotion breathed into parted mouths like a benediction.

By morning, the voices of the well have all but fallen silent.

The day that follows finds them completing some of the tasks that Josephine had assigned. First with a brief visit to check on Inquisition troops stationed at a watchtower along the highway, before heading into a nearby village when the soldiers tell of rumors of a rift having begun to form.

The rift turns out to be a minor thing, of a size and instability that would not permit any but the smallest of wisps to escape. They make short work of the anomaly, Daleka's adrenaline only beginning to flood her system when Solas slips his fingers between hers and guides her to the inn at the center of town with a mischievous grin.

His purpose is thwarted, however, when they are forced to settle a dispute between the innkeeper and the Inquisition soldiers he claim skipped out on their bill. Which somehow leads to them losing half-a-day helping an ailing grandfather find his missing grandson - the lad had wondered off into the woods to check on a hunter's snare he'd set – two rabbits and one nug later, sees him returned to his distraught elder.

But even these activities are a welcome reprieve from the constant demands at Skyhold, and the hushed murmurs of the well that still struggle to be heard in her mind. And Daleka is forced to acknowledge that Solas was right, as he so often is: she needed this. She hadn't realized how much.

They make it to Crestwood late the next evening, where she has little choice but to wear the mantle of the Inquisitor again as they meet with the Captain in charge of the Keep, and she is shuffled from person to person, hearing requests and signing off on requisitions.

When the sun reaches its peak in the sky on the fourth day, her duties as complete as are needed for the time being, Solas and her wander from the Keep and through the town of Crestwood, taking a meandering path through the village - checking on the citizens and stopping at a merchant's stall to purchase bits of dried ram and two fresh fruits. They are thick skinned, but juicy, and Daleka enjoys them if for no other reason than how they allow her a chance to lick their dribblings from Solas's chin.

The day is easy, peaceful in a way that Daleka cannot rightly recall having ever before experienced. It's as close to a perfect day as she can imagine existing.

She says a prayer of thanks to the voices from the well for leaving them be. She'd rather not have the memory of their time in this place marred by the doubting whispers.

They find their way – hand in hand - into a glen just as dusk has just settled over the day, bathing the world in its blue glow. By the look upon Solas's face as they make their way forward in the direction of the pool, this has been his intended destination all along. The place is familiar, one of the many areas that they'd cleared out in their earlier travels, though she hadn't thought it anything special at the time.

Now, though, it feels…_magical_.

"The veil is thin here. Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?"

"A little. Like...a kind of humming? I think? It's different, but, I like it."

He gives her a half-smile, so full of promise that it heats her blood. "I will keep that in mind." He lifts a palm to cup her cheek, and she places her hand over it, holding it in place. "I have been trying to determine someway to show you what you mean to me."

"This trip has been an excellent start. _Ma serannas, _Solas."

"You need not thank me, _ma sa'lath_. This time with you has been a gift for me as well." He pulls his hand away, leaving her feeling bereft for a moment, though the feeling is abated when he moves to clasp both of her hands in his own. "You are unique. In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade." She feels like a youth experiencing love for the first time with the way her pulse speeds up at the admission. "You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined."

"As you are to me."

"I wanted…Please know that were it within my power, I would unbind you from the will of Mythal."

Never one to miss an opening when offered, she asks, "I thought you didn't believe in the elven gods."

"I believe that they existed, but not that they were gods." He ducks his head for a moment, seeming focused on their linked hands, playing idly with her fingers. The feelings the touch invokes within her in direct opposition to the steadily increasing pace of her heart as he meets her eyes and continues. "Powerful mages, perhaps. And I would do anything I could to see you free from their - or anyone's - schemes. But the best I can offer you is...the truth."

Her heart stutters at the word, and her voice is but a pale reflection of its normal self. Like a match being lit, the word seems to have brought the voices of the well screaming back to the front of her mind. "The truth?" But that is _nothing _when comparedto the visions that they carry with them once more.

"Yes...I-your face, the vallaslin-"

She forces a laugh, feeling something heavy and jagged drop to the pit of her stomach. The well's visions on just that topic clear as the pool beside them, yet rushing in like a rapid threatening to drown her. She tightens her hold on his hands, squeezing them just beyond the point of gentle. "You brought me all the way out here to talk about my vallaslin?"

"I...yes. The Dalish believe they honor the elven gods, but in my journeys in the Fade I have discovered what they truly mean."

She blinks at him, because to do anything else would be impossible - what with how her feet have become rooted to the ground. It is a good thing too, as it is all that holds her back from striking at the vision of him in ancient, foreign garb, skull crown glinting in the moonlight upon the thick hair running down the middle of his scalp that suddenly superimposes itself over the reality of him in the here and now.

As if the well feels the need to remind her of just whose hands she may hold.

Somehow, she manages to find her voice. Or at least, the low controlled version of it she normally saves for when the nobles at Skyhold have pressed her a step too far. "Which is?" She asks, knowing - _intimately_ \- what the answer will be, but clinging to a tiny shred of hope nonetheless.

Perhaps...perhaps if the well was wrong in this, it was wrong about everything else.

It is a thin veneer of hope to which she clings, but cling she does nonetheless.

"They are slave markings. Or at least they were-"

"In Arlathan." The veneer shatters, and Daleka feels herself fall. Her fault for clinging too tight.

Solas tilts his head, brows scrunched between his eyes as he regards her like she is a curiosity. "Yes. That is correct. How did you-"

"The well, it…" She reaches up to paw at her temple, letting her eyes drift away from the eerie vision of him the well still maintains. "It's like it's trying to bring things into focus, help me to understand, and that...it tells me that you're right. That...that the vallaslin…" And here her voice fails her, peters out from her chest on a lost gasp of air. For if the well was _right_, if it was right about this, then-

She raises her eyes back to Solas, watching in fear and awe as the vision over him wavers. Bright and shining one moment, wearing the trappings of a long gone race; dark and dangerous the next, with three pairs of eyes aglow in the moonlight, nestled in the white-furred face of the Bringer of Nightmares.

And then - then he is just _Solas_.

But it's too late, because the well has finally found a tactic on which it can relay to get her attention – choosing to pull at her own memories and feeding them up to her: _Solas _and his ability to speak – _and read_ – Elven better than Keeper Deshanna; _Solas_ and the vast stores of knowledge that he learned _in the fade_; _Solas_ and his skill at magics long lost to the elves, existing only in bastardized versions co-opted by Tevinter; _Solas_ at _court_.

Abelas calling _her_ a shem, but addressing _Solas_ as Elvhen.

She pulls in a heaving breath, the pressure that had settled on top of her chest giving way to something deeper - like a dagger to the heart. For there is no denying anymore what the well has been trying to tell her. No denying who Solas really _is_.

And yet…

"I'm sorry, _Vhenan_. I did not tell you this to hurt you. If you like, I know a spell." He is looking upon her with such love, with such compassion, that she finds herself making a choice without any conscious effort to do so.

And she chooses to trust him. For all the tales her people may tell about the Great Betrayer, Solas has never been anything but kind. Has in fact gone out of his way to care for her, to show her affection.

_To love her. _

And he would know, would understand her wish to scrub her skin clean the vallaslin and what they represent. And here he is, offering her a way to remove them,_ a gift_.

It doesn't seem possible that he could be anything like what the stories say. Perhaps in this, as in so many things, the Dalish have gotten it wrong.

"Take the vallaslin. I may now be bound to the will of Mythal, but I would not be marked a **slave**."

A smile like an autumn sunset over the mountains fills his face. It buoys her heart with happiness even as trepidation settles into her bones. She takes the seat that he offers, and forces her eyes to remain open while he casts the spell.

It's warmth, and light, and a coasting itch, like her skin is waking from an eternity of sleep. So very different from the blistering pain that heralded in the application of the blood markings.

The distinction seems so very fitting to Lavellan.

The spell is over as quick as it began - another obvious difference from the long hours that the vallaslin took at its birth. For a moment, Daleka is curious as to how Solas came to know such a spell - only to find that she has to beat back a torrent of _hows_ and _ways_ and _whys_ from the well.

She refuses to pay the cacophony any mind. Not with the living, breathing evidence that is Solas standing before her, looking upon her like she is the only thing in the world that matters, telling her that he _can't_ be what the legends claim. Howling out that the Dalish are _wrong_.

A wolf he may be, but there is nothing _Dread _about him.

"_Ar lasa mala revas_. You are free." But they both know that is far from true. The voices from the well continuing to bicker inside her head all too clearly reminding her that she is still _bound_ \- no matter that she may no longer be marked.

Echoes of doubt clog her thoughts and she finds that she cannot hold Solas's soft and happy gaze. So she looks down and away, towards the pool beside them, and tries to recall what she looked like before the vallaslin was etched into her flesh; but the image is no more than the flimsy memory of an easily infuriated child.

Solas gains her attention back with a flutter of the tips of his fingers along her cheek, the arch of her nose; his thumb dipping down along the curve of her mouth to settle beneath her chin and lifts her gaze back to his. "You are so beautiful."

He kisses her then, soft and sweet, gentle lips plying hers apart; the tender stroke of his tongue makes her quiver, and clutch at his arms to steady herself. In the shared breath that passes from his lungs to hers, he is simply Solas, her beloved.

They slip apart from one another, her mouth chasing after his, aching to taste the smile gracing it once more; aching for the relief that only he can provide.

Only his smile falters, and she watches - as if from outside herself - as the loving look in his eyes flickers through what could be shock, but might also be sorrow, and then closes off in its entirety. The thump-thump of her heart falters before beginning to race within her chest at the sight.

His hands drop away as he puts distance between their bodies. And then words, words that she comprehends the meaning of, but that don't make _sense_ when strung together in such a fashion, slide like cool water from his tongue.

"And I am sorry. I have distracted you enough from your duty. It will not happen again."

Confusion swells inside of her, the likes of which puts the feelings caused by the well to shame. "What?" She moves a step towards him, her arm outstretched, only to have him step back and raise his hands in a warding gesture. To her horror, her lower lip starts to tremble. "Solas?"

"Please, _Vhenan_."

She looks at him, truly _looks_ \- with no aid offered up by the well - and sees that he means it. That he can offer words of love and truth and beauty in one breath, only to break her heart and walk away with the next; and she knows herself to be a fool. Knows that no truer one has ever existed. Grant her a jester's cap, for she could surely entertain all the nobles of Thedas with her gullible ways.

She'd _trusted _him - made the decision to do so, fully, mere minutes before. Chosen _him _over the teachings of her people, and the shouts of the well; bushing them all away for the façade of a man that claimed _love_ for her.

But he is the Dread Wolf, and only a fool would believe the Dread Wolf could love anyone.

And, _oh_, what a fool she has been.

"Is _this _why you brought me here, Solas?" Her hands curl into fists in an instinctive urge to protect herself from the source of her pain. "So that you could end it without fear of my making a scene in Skyhold? Did you hope to soften the blow first by telling me the true nature of the vallaslin? That it may distract me?"

"No, that was not my intent. The vallaslin-"

"_Fenedhis lasa_ the vallaslin! I do not care about that, Solas! I care about WHY? Why did you bring me here, truly? Why taunt me with days of peace and comfort? Was this all just some game to you?" Her whole body shakes where she stands; energy thrumming through it, demanding release.

"No. This was no game. _We_ were no game."

"How can I believe that? Was any of this even real to you?"

He sucks in a breath at the question, his self-imposed attempts at distance dissolving as he moves a step in her direction. "In all of Thedas, there is nothing more real to me. Please trust me when I say that I never meant to hurt you."

The laughter jumps from her throat in short, staccato bursts of air that make her stomach muscles clench. "Trust? You want me to trust you? When you won't even grant me the courtesy of telling me _why_?

"I know that it may be difficult, that you are hurt, angry - rightly so - and I do not deserve your faith, but-"

"Then tell me why!" Her demand reverberates around the glen, a jarring sound in so peaceful a locale that it flushes a small flock of birds out from their resting place.

He shakes his head at her, with a look she would have classified as _regret_ before, but that she is no longer certain she can believe - just like everything else. "I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"It does not matter. The answers would only lead to more questions-"

"And since when have you known me to shy away from questions, _Solas_?" She bites it out through gritted teeth.

He sighs, a heavy, moist sound. "It is a discussion that would benefit neither of us. The mistake is mine alone, you've done _nothing_ wrong. _Please_, let that be enough_. _I'm sorry, vhenan-" He lifts a hand, as if he means to cup her cheek, but she swipes it aside with her forearm, using the momentum to wrap her hand around his wrist and tug him towards her, bringing his face down to hers.

"**No**! _Banal'abelas, banal'vhenan_, _**Harellan**_!"

It should be more satisfying, she thinks, watching the way that the color drains from his face, and his eyes go wide. But no. No there is nothing at all _satisfying _about this night.

Instead the icy chasm in her stomach grows, gaping ever wider until it threatens to freeze her soul as it swallows her whole.

"You think me stupid, Solas? Is that it?" Daleka squeezes his wrist within her grip, before flinging it away from her. He falls back a step, straightening his posture - though the arm she held flops like a fish by his side. "Am I but a child in your eyes who hears but does not _listen_? Who sees but does not _understand_?" She crosses the minute distance between them to place both palms open against his chest and shove. He keeps his feet under him, but still loses a foot of ground. A foot of ground that she quickly closes for she refuses to show him the respect of personal space.

"You claim to speak of_ truths_, but all you offer me are lies. So be it. Keep your _secrets_, **Solas**." She spits his name at him, spittle flicking off at an angle to hit him on the cheek. He makes no move to wipe it away, instead staring at her with unblinking, fearful eyes. _Good. _"But take care, or one day you may find yourself dying alone as you **choke** on them."

She turns from him then, unwilling to hear more from his liar's throat, and makes haste for her Hart.

The pace she sets on the trek back to Skyhold is brutal, but her mount doesn't complain - instead he carries her swiftly towards their destination, even when she no longer has strength in her arms to continue to guide them.

At least there is one beast in her life that she knows she can trust.

~TBC

* * *

**Elvish Translations:**

_Ma Vhenan: _My Heart

_ma lath_: my love

_Vir'abelasan_: The place of the way of sorrows

_Ma serannas_: Thank you

_ma sa'lath_: my one love

_Ar lasa mala revas_: You are free

_Fenedhis lasa_: Just a general Elvish curse that I'm taking to mean 'to hell with' in this context.

_Banal'abelas, banal'vhenan_, _**Harellan**_: Loosely translated as "You're not sorry, you have no heart, Trickster."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author Notes: **First up, a big THANK you to everyone who has been reading this so for, I adore you all! Next, no Solas in this chapter, unfortunately, but Dorian finally makes an appearance (as do Dennet and Dagna briefly), so it all evens out, yeah? Only one more chapter to go after this one. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Daleka is thankful that it is well past dinner when she makes it back to Skyhold. It means that the yards are empty of the majority of the Hold's occupants - the merchants closed down for the evening and the recruits dismissed for the day - and that the chances of her running into one of her advisors or companions are limited.

She knows well enough that they will be informed of her return in short-order. The guards will be certain to inform Cullen, and Leliana's eyes and ears will be sure to report on the Inquisitor's return to the Hold after a week's long absence.

Daleka is also certain that the absence of Solas by her side will be noted.

She can only hope that they will give her a moment to catch her breath before they descend upon her.

Weary, she leads her Hart over to the stables, stroking her fingers over his side in a light massage as they make their way with to the stall he normally occupies, trying to soothe some of the aches and pains she is certain the creature has acquired thanks to her demands for speed. He deserves all the pampering she can provide, having carried her a distance that should have taken them three days in less than two. "_Ma serannas, Enansal'Ghilana_."

He keens softly in appreciation, nudging her head with his own once he is settled into his stall, a trough of feed and water at the ready. Kind eyes blinking at her with more knowledge than any mere beast should have. She buries her face against his neck, taking solace in his warmth and scent for a minute more, before she sets to the task of brushing out his fur, and checking him for any scraps or parasites.

The exhaustion - physical, mental, spiritual - that she has been keeping at bay since departing from Solas at the glen as if all the demons in Thedas were nipping at her heels (she steadfastly refuses to think on what took place at the glen until she is safe, and secure, and _alone_) begins to take its toll, and she fumbles with the brush, dropping it to the ground repeatedly. She manages to secure it in her hand on the fourth try, but the tremors are noticeable in the way the object quakes in her grip.

A cough by the stable doors alerts her to the presence of Master Dennet; too tired to be startled, she turns to greet him with a nod, only to find his gaze focused on her shaking hands. "You all right, Inquisitor?"

"I'm fine, Dennet. Just tired."

"Mmm, well see that you get some rest. I can finish up for you here."

"Oh no, Dennet, I should-"

He crosses the distance between them and grasps the brush in her hand, giving her a look that speaks volumes regarding how ragged she must appear, "_You should get some rest_. Let an old man do his job for a change, yeah?"

Uncharacteristic heat suffuses Daleka's cheeks at the subtle admonishment. "I- Thank you, Dennet."

With a smile, Dennet shakes his head. "Nothing to it, Inquisitor. You do enough around here. Now off you go."

Not wanting to embarrass herself further, Daleka nods her thanks to Dennet, stopping to stroke her Hart's side once more before she departs, making her way for the main hall of Skyhold.

Upon entering, she is grateful to note that returning both well-passed the dinner hour and unexpectedly early from her travels, has resulted in the main hall being blessedly free of occupants. The tables already cleared of food, with only a lone masked Orlesian hovering over a glass of amber liquid and muttering incoherently to himself.

Not even Varric is haunting his usual place. Which, once she does the math in her head, she realizes is due to it being Wicked Grace night. Which would also explain Blackwall's absence from the stables - something she'd not even been of a mind to note until now.

She exhales a stunted chuckle, acknowledging the serendipity of such a turn of events - with luck, she won't have to deal with any of her advisors or inner circle until morning. Encouraged by the prospect, she makes haste towards her chamber door.

"Inquisitor!"

Daleka shuts her eyes against the sound of the title being called out in Dagna's sunny voice. Remembering all-too-clearly how she'd reacted last time, when the woman had done nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Daleka counts backwards from three in order to allow enough time to compose herself before turning towards the arcanist. She's been nothing but an eager employee of the Inquisition, and even something of a friend to Daleka during the long hours they've both spent in the undercroft; and for that, she deserves better than the treatment she last received. "Yes?"

With a little hop, Dagna comes to a stop a half-dozen paces from Daleka, and waves. "Hiya! You said to find you later, and well, it's _later._ I wasn't actually expecting to see you right now or anything_, _but, you're here! And I'm sorry for well, you know, _before. _I hope now is a better time?"

Daleka would like to scream out that _no, no now is not a good time, could we perhaps bump all appointments and pending apocalypses until sometime in the next age, please? _But instead what comes out is, "Now's fine."

Dagna's smile widens to the point of absurdity; glowing with repressed excitement at the Inquisitor. "Oh, great! I know that you're always _so_ busy, so I'll keep this brief. The_ special stock_ that we've been trying to get? For _months_ now? It's finally arrived!"

"I'm sorry? Special stock?" Daleka rubs a hand across her eyes, then moves on to rub at her temples in a futile effort to keep the perpetual headache at bay.

"Yeah-huh!" Dagna takes a step closer, eyes darting around the throne room as if she is searching for someone before she continues, her voice dropped to a hush. "For the,_ ya know_? _Thing?_" Dagna looks positively gleeful, waggling her eyebrows at Daleka and making a rolling motion with her hand, waiting for the Inquisitor to catch up. But Daleka shakes her head, unable to follow; her growing headache the only thing she is able to catch up on at the moment.

Dagna puffs out a breath of air, ruffling a curl of hair that had fallen out of place over her forehead, and drops her voice even further. _"For the staff_ that you've been working on? _Ya know? _For Sol-"

At the sound of the first syllable of his name, Daleka's heart jumps, and she cuts the other woman off with a raised hand. Her brain finally able to fall in line with Dagna's thought process. Quite clearly bringing into focus an image of the staff she has been painstakingly working on for Solas for _months. _The only parts that were missing were the focal stone, and the ornament that she'd been carving for the top to hold it all together. "Oh. That. Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry, it's late, and I've had a long day. The stone is here then?"

"Yes! I can't wait for you to see it, it is _exactly _what you said you wanted! And well, it should be, given the coin that we spent - did I mention that I had to pay a little extra in the end? A smidge. Okay, double. BUT, it was_ so _worth -"

"Dagna."

"Sorry. Sorry. I was babbling again, wasn't I?"

"Just a bit. Yes."

"Sorry. All we need now is the piece you've been working on for the top, and then I'll be able to set the rune - which is finished by the way - and voila! He's going to _love_ it!" Dagna hops a bit, clapping her hands together, wide smile showing off pearly teeth.

Daleka tries to smile back at Dagna, and her exuberance, she really does, but she doubts she makes it much further than 'pained grimace.' She thinks on the staff, all of the _effort _that she has put into getting it just right; thinks on the figurehead that is almost fully carved - only one of the wings needs a bit of tweaking and it will be complete - and finds the thought of putting it together for Solas as planned, _now_, after what happened at Crestwood...

It is then, as Dagna's face falls into a questioning frown, that Daleka is struck with a bolt of inspiration so wild and mad, that it makes her shout out a 'Hah!' just this shy of a war cry in volume.

Poor Dagna _jumps_. "Inquisitor?"

"I'm sorry, Dagna. But I just had the most _brilliant _of ideas for how to complete the staff. If you'll excuse me, I think I shall get started right away. I'll be down to see you just as soon as it's ready." She twirls and heads back towards the entrance of the hall.

"But, Inquisitor! The pieces are all in the undercroft!"

"Not anymore they aren't, Dagna! I'm making something new. Special. Something so very, very _fitting_."

For the first time since Crestwood, she feels the corners of her mouth lift in what could be a smile - though she'd wager that by the way the one noble still lingering in the hall gasps as Daleka stalks by, that it's more of a snarl.

And right now? That suits her just fine.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Dorian hums beneath his breath as he makes his way down the upper ramparts of Skyhold, the neck of a half-full bottle of Tevinter brandy clasped tight in his sweat-slicked fingers. His whole body still tingling from where Bull had-

Dorian's musings are brought to a grinding halt at the sudden, and entirely unexpected sight of the sight of the Inquisitor sat crossed-legged amidst a cord of massacred wood in the middle of the rampart, a lit lantern and a dozen well-loved and broken-in tools her only company - especially seeing as how she wasn't due back for several days from her little love jaunt with Solas.

"And what is my dearest friend working on so diligently, hidden away in such a remote corner of Skyhold as this, under the cover of darkness? Hmm?"

Lavellan makes a non-committal grunting noise, as she is want to do, and merely continues on with her work, head bent down over her lap where she is scraping away at a block of wood as he has so often seen her do in the past. Stopping here and there to wipe away shavings with the pad of her thumb. If not for the ferocity with which she is digging in with her carving knife, and the look of poorly contained rage upon her face, he might think this the same as any other night. Well, the rage fueled carving is actually not that unusual, when he thinks on it, but the fact that she_'s_ hiding in the ass-end of Skyhold, by a tower that has yet to see any repairs? And far, far away from any prying eyes?

That **is **somewhat disconcerting.

Dorian himself is only there on account of Bull, whose completely outlandish requests Dorian has given up on even _pretending_ to not be excited to fulfill. He smiles to himself, remembering this evening's especially _exquisite _excursion...

He shakes his head, trying to push the goofy smile threatening to spread across his face away. Knowing by the body language of his best friend, that now is neither the time nor place.

"Lavellan?"

"Hmm?"

"What_ are _you doing?" Dorian lowers himself to the stone walkway, folding his legs beneath him so that he is sitting across from her and the mess of wood explosion encircling her.

"Carving."

"Yes. I can_ see _that. But it is well past when all good Inquisitors should be sleeping tucked away in their beddie byes with their bald bed-warmers wrapped snuggly around them." At the reference to her lover Daleka's hand slips on the carving, her knife slicing deep into the pad of her forefinger.

"Shit." She shoves it quickly into her mouth to suck on the bead of blood, but the slip-up shocks Dorian all the same.

Many hours he has sat with her while she has whittled a piece. The two of them arguing over politics (Her default response was always '_Have they considered how helpful a punch to the face might be?_') or batting jokes of an ever-increasing inappropriate nature back and forth with nary a hitch in her movements as she laughed. He's seen her work on them in the midst of a packed dining hall, or in the blistering heat of the Hissing Wastes - and never, not _once_ \- has he ever seen her slip. In an instant his good humor flees, to be replaced with the fast rising waters of concern.

"What's happened?"

She lifts her eyes to his, finger still wedged between her lips, and shakes her head. She looks younger and more lost than he has ever seen her, and it takes him a shamefully long second to notice what is so clearly _missing_.

Dorian says nothing for the moment however, instead opting to pull the injured finger from her mouth with a soft pop. He curls his hand around the digit, sending a warm pulse of healing magic into it. He might not have much by way of healing ability - but even he can handle a cut as simple as this.

"Daleka…your markings..."

She closes her eyes at the sound of her name, and shudders when he mentions the missing tattoos. She pulls her hand back with a gentle tug, and picks up the piece she was working on; fiddling with the partially carved item. "Solas removed them for me."

"Why?"

"Because I asked him too."

"Daleka." She shrugs at the chastisement, but acquiesces all the same.

"Because the Dalish were wrong. They're wrong about _so many things, _Dorian." She looks up at the sky with a heavy sigh, before glancing back at the wood in her hands - anywhere but at him - and snorts. "Though not about everything it would seem."

"I'm afraid I'm not following."

"They were slave markings, Dorian. The Dalish wear them to honor the old ways, to honor the gods, but - but they're nothing more than the markings elvhen nobility used to give their _property_." She spits the last word, and Dorian feels his hackles rise, remembering - with utmost clarity - the way that they had argued at the beginning of their friendship over what it meant to be a slave. Knowing how she feels about the practice - _**detest**_ isn't a strong enough word, loathes with the heat of a thousand burning suns would be more accurate - he can only imagine what it must have felt like to _learn _such a thing about her people.

To learn that she'd worn such marks _with pride_.

He feels bile churn in his stomach at the thought. Followed by anger that Solas would reveal something of such import, scrub away a part of her heritage from her face, and then leave her _alone _to deal with the emotional aftermath. Knowing it is of no use at the moment, Dorian does what he can to beat that feeling down.

Later, however...Well, Lavellan's feelings on the punching of faces had some merit.

He places his hand on her shoulder for a moment in comfort, saddened by how she stiffens at the touch. "I can't imagine how hard that was to learn, my friend. Did Solas say-"

"I didn't learn it from him. Well, I _did_. Sort of. But he really only confirmed what the well told me. I...I've known since shortly after we left the temple. I just didn't want to believe it."

"Oh." Because what else can he say? Did the mystical well of _sorrows _tell you anything else horribly distressing?

Which is apparently exactly what he _does_ say, because she laughs, and answers the question. He really ought to keep a closer watch on his mouth. Or drink less so as to stop his tongue from being so loose.

No. No definitely the former. Let's not get crazy.

"It did, actually. I'm...I'm still sorting through most of it. Let it be known that when something is called _a well of sorrows_ that the title is **not** a misnomer."

Dorian snorts, and is pleased to see that the sound rustles up something that could almost be called a smile on his friend's face.

She taps the side of her head, that same wry grin still in place. "There's a whole lot jumbled up in here. Like a bunch of puzzle pieces for an image I've never seen. Makes me feel for Gatsi, and his job with the mosaics in a way I hadn't before. The man deserves a raise."

She picks up a piece of sanding paper and starts smoothing one of the edges on the block of partially carved wood still held in her hands. "But the topics closest to me? Like...like with the vallaslin, and Corypheus? That stuff is starting to sort itself out. Like a cipher, I guess? I just need the primer to make heads or tails of it. So, yes, I knew before S-Solas brought it up."

Dorian hears the out-of-character stutter on her lover's name, but lets it slide. There's something she's not telling him, that much is obvious, but he knows when to press and when to alter the course. And now is not the time for pressing. "Even so, it was clearly a shock. I'm sorry for that."

"Hmmm."

She begins whittling again, and he settles in for the watch. Noting the size of the block of wood she is working on is quite large as compared to most he has seen in the past. "Bit bigger than your average chess piece, I'd say."

"A little."

"May I ask what this is to be, then?"

She pauses, her eyes glancing up to his for a moment, before she focuses again on her task. "A figurehead. For a staff."

"Ohhh! A present? And which, dashing, stunningly handsome mage in your acquaintance is this for, may I ask?" He flutters his eyelashes at her, and is rewarded with a half-smile and soft laugh.

"You may, but I don't think you're going to like the answer."

He slaps his hand to his chest, and tilts back and away from her, "Oh, how you wound me, Inquisitor! What must I do to earn a favor such as this, from your talented hands?" She glares at him, but there is a lightness to it that was missing before. He'd pat himself on the back for his success, if his shoulders weren't still so sore from Bull and-

_Never minding _that_ again! F_ocus_, Dorian!_

He shifts his position so that he is closer to her side and able to lean over her work a bit without blocking the light from the lantern settled near her knee. "What sort of a figure is it to be? Animal? Plant? Mineral? Phallus?"

She grunts, completely unphased, and continues working on the piece, her knife slicing clean and sure once more, and he lets it be. Content to watch the figure begin to take shape. He can understand why the act is so therapeutic for her, watching something come to life the way that the wood does for her is awe-inspiring. Long minutes tick by, and slowly the face of the piece makes itself known.

He squints at it though, because it looks like, like it might… "Did you mean for it to have that many eyes?"

"Yes."

"Ahh."

She continues to work, undeterred by his question, the knife sinking in to carve out a deeper space in one of the many eye sockets. His left eye twitches in sudden sympathy with a piece of wood.

"I know that I am shamefully under-informed regarding Dalish lore and tradition - an area that I fully intend to pursue with more scrutiny once time allows, I assure you - but neither am I completely uneducated. And, well, isn't placing **that** in a position of power on a staff a bit..._blasphemous_?"

"Only to some."

"Meaning that it won't be seen as such by its recipient?"

She slips the whittling knife towards the side of her hand, and rubs away at the arch over one of the creatures many eyes, using her nail to tug away a stubborn splinter in the grain. "Solas will understand the meaning behind it well enough."

And there, there is the opening he's been waiting on. "And what _is _the intended meaning of this...gift?"

She meets his gaze, and lifts a brow. "Do you have time for a history lesson?"

He bumps his shoulder against hers, careful not to jostle the work in her hands. "For you, my love? Always."

"Then tell me, Dorian, what do you know of the Dread Wolf?"

~TBC

* * *

**Elvish Translations:**

_Ma serannas, Enansal'Ghilana__: _Thank you, Blessed Guide. (Which is Lavellan's name for her Hart.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Author Notes: **This is it, folks! The final part of this tale. (Though I think it may not be the last time I play with these characters.) A big shout out to **itsmyfreakin** for indulging me in my headcanons for these characters, which has resulted in a particular coffee-related mention included within this chapter. You're the best! And of course, THANK YOU to all of my readers! You have no idea how much I CHERISH each and every follow/kudos/favorite/comment. You are all awesome! And I hope you enjoy the conclusion!

* * *

**Chapter 4**

* * *

The carving is more than half-complete by the time that Daleka is finished giving her impromptu history lesson; the body has not yet taken shape, but the face stares at her with empty eyes.

Wholly unlike the knowing gaze that Dorian is giving her. She'd kept the lesson vague enough, couching the tale in the guise of lore - focusing on the _Betrayer_ aspect of it - as opposed to boldly stating the knowledge that the well had imparted upon her regarding Solas's true identify.

She'd told him he could keep his secrets, after all, and she'd meant it.

So long as he never gives her a reason aside from a shattered heart to tell them that is.

But still, the spirit of her tale - and the purpose behind the figurehead that she is carving - is obvious enough. She isn't normally one for dancing around the facts, but in this case she is glad to play along.

Without another word, Dorian gathers up her tools and lantern, kicking the discarded blocks of wood to the side to be dealt with later, and crooks his arm out for her to take. She slides her hand into the hook of his elbow, and allows him to lead them over the ramparts. He takes the long route - she assumes to avoid the rotunda, just in case - as he leads them to her chambers.

She loves him a little more for that small kindness.

They've only just crossed the threshold to the lower landing when her stomach announces itself via a gurgling so loud it makes both of them stop in their tracks.

"When was the last time you ate, my friend?"

"Umm, I had some dried meat on the trail, and a handful of berries."

Dorian sighs, reaching up with a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "And how long ago was that?"

Daleka shrugs, too embarrassed to admit that she has no idea what day that even was.

Seeming to read her like a book, he pushes her equipment into her arms. "I'll just go scrounge up some food for us then, shall I? I'm sure the cooks won't mind me digging through their stores in the middle of the night, making a right mess of things. Not so long as it's for their Inquisitor."

Daleka gives him a tight smile and a nod, and he backs out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

She makes her way up the final set of stairs to her room, remembering with utmost clarity the last time she had done the same. The bellows of the well are calm now, no one's face here at Skyhold a cause for their concern it would seem; and no other tidbits of information needing to be imparted to her again just yet. Though she can feel the fingers of their influence still within her skull.

She drops her tools and the in-progress carving on the table holding the remains of her chess pieces, and turns to take in the room. The bed has been made since last she was here. The teapot at her desk cleaned, and empty. The burnt logs they'd left in the hearth exchanged for fresh, dry wood. The papers on her desk have been straightened, placed into a pile, and weighed down by a familiar looking leather bound book - the sight of which makes her breath hitch: _Solas's sketchbook._

Pain flares up at the reminder of just what has happened, just what she's_ lost_ since last she was here. She looks back to the bed - the size of it mocking her, as well as the blanket folded with care at the foot. Memories of them - only a few days old - tangled together in those sheets, _happy_, rise to the front of her mind.

Her body starts to tremble, and she clenches her hands into fists to curb the emotional outburst she can feel building at the edges. The action helps to guide her pain into anger, and with no real conscience decision, she tears through the room, seeking out the evidence of Solas's presence - wanting, _needing_ \- to purge him from this space if she is going to have any hope of continuing to function.

And she is determined to do such - for she will _not _allow this to break her.

By the time Dorian returns, tray in hand, Daleka has gathered a pathetically tiny collection of items that belong to Solas upon her desk.

"Funny story, I was caught with my hand in a cupboard - that is not a euphemism, mind - by one of the cooks, and I _think_ he may now believe I am nursing a crush-"

"How can this be all?"

"Pardon?"

She lifts her gaze towards Dorian, finding him standing by the lounge near the stairs of her room, a veritable smorgasbord of her favorite fruits and cheeses piled up high on the tray in his hand. She has to swallow against the sudden wave of nausea when she speaks, the taste bitter in her mouth.

"For months, Dorian, _months_, he's been sleeping in my bed. Waking here more mornings than in his own, and the only things he's left in my room are a couple of tunics - one of which I _stole_ from him to wear myself, and wouldn't let him take back." She shakes the garment at him, all-too-aware that her hands are also shaking. "A, a pair of breeches, and a damn book of _sketches_!" She picks the cursed book up and hurls it at the unlit hearth, where it lands with its pages open on display. Moisture creeps at the corners of her eyes at the familiar sight of graphite images peeking from within, but she blinks them back.

"Daleka-"

"I just - am I an idiot, Dorian? I thought - I thought he _cared_ about me, but he never… Did I just not want to notice? How, how did I not notice…?" Her breathing speeds up as she clutches the tunic tight in her hands.

The tray of food is discarded on a table and Dorian is by her side in two strides, arms wrapping tight around her, his shattered sounding "_sweetheart_" the final pebble that overloads the damn, causing a flood to pour from her eyes - her spirit _aching_ as she makes a mess of his silken shirt.

"You are many things, my friend, but you are _not_ an idiot." Against her will, Daleka's hands clutch at Dorian's sides when she feels him start to pull back. But he doesn't go far, just enough that he can tilt her face up by her chin. "The only _idiot _in this situation is the man who walked away from you."

Though it hurts, she pulls from his embrace, wiping at her eyes and shaking her head. "No. No, it was me - there were signs. So many. He - _fenedhis!_" She pounds her fist against her desk, rattling the top and causing the now unweighted stack of papers to tumble to the floor. "He _warned _me. Said we shouldn't, but then he, he-" She slumps back, facing Dorian once more as she rests her weight against the desk. "I should have seen this coming, Dorian. I just didn't _want _to. I had hoped that he cared. Truly. But, it was all nothing but the naive hope of a foolish woman. Whatever he felt for me - it wasn't _real._"

Dorian stares at her for several long beats, and she thinks that maybe - just maybe - he's doing the same mental calculations that she did earlier - albeit with a few less pieces of the equation available - and is managing to come to the same conclusion - before he reaches out a hand to her. "Come here." Daleka doesn't even have to think, for _this_ is a man she _knows _she can trust. She places her hand in his, and allows him to lead her over to the lounge. "Sit." She does. _Of course_ she does.

Once she is seated he releases her hand and crosses over to the hearth to collect the discarded sketchbook. She purses her lips as she watches him flip through it on his walk back, a tiny part of her wanting to yell at him to drop it. That it's not his. That he shouldn't be looking through it at all. That it's _personal_. But she doesn't breathe a word.

Her defense of Solas's privacy can only extend so far these days.

Dorian settles down beside her and laces one hand with hers again, his thumb rubbing over the back of hers in a gentle motion. "I'm going to say something and I want you to not get angry at me and throw me off your balcony, okay?"

Her laugh is watery, but it feels good even so. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"I mean it, Lavellan. No harming my person, understood? I know I seem very sturdy, but really I'm quite delicate."

Daleka snorts, "Given what I've been able to glean from both you _and _Cole about your relationship with Bull, I somehow doubt that."

"Yes, well, be that as I may. I'm afraid that I must insist."

She shoots him a look that is three-quarters exasperation, one-quarter fondness. "And I'm afraid if you don't get to the point soon, I may just be tempted to see if Tevinter mages can _bounce_."

"Well, who could refuse with **that** kind of an incentive? Fine. To the point then." He slides Solas's sketchbook onto her lap. He leaves it closed, thankfully, but that does little to curb her urge to hurl it as far from her person as possible.

"You are - without a doubt - the _scariest _person in all of Thedas when you are first woken in the mornings. Did you know that Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana had to establish a 'wake up' protocol with the chambermaids after the third one ran screaming from your rooms in the morning?" Her jaw drops open and shuts with a snap. No, she didn't know that. She's not sure whether to be angry, or impressed. In the end she just shakes her head.

"No? Well don't tell them that I told you. Leliana doesn't seem like the type to forgive having her secrets spilled. But, it _is_ true. We have a similar system for when we travel. You may have noticed that there is always a pot of the finest Antivan coffee brewing before you wake in the mornings at camp?"

At this she laughs, because the brew is _delicious_, and by far one of her favorite discoveries since joining the Inquisition. It made getting up in the mornings much less hideous. "I had. That's your doing I take it?"

Dorian laughs. "Myself and every other companion of yours. Cassandra in particular went to battle with Josephine to insure that the monthly budget always includes an adequate supply."

"I'll have to thank her."

"Yes, you should. As I was saying, waking you is akin to waking a sleeping dragon. One does so at their own peril, and preferably only with a large shield to stand behind. You are - and I say this as someone who _adores _you - an unholy terror in the mornings, so much so that more than one scout has inquired as to whether or not you've been _possessed_ during the night." He reaches forward with his free hand and taps on the cover of the sketchbook twice. "And yet, this book? It is positively _overflowing_ with images of you looking akin to a goddess in all stages of sleep."

She stiffens, hackles raising and her good humor beginning to fade away. "Dorian."

"Hush. I'm talking. You can give me a verbal tongue lashing when I'm done. _Yes_, I admit that I've looked at it before. Don't give me that look! You're my dearest friend, and I was both curious and concerned when you and Solas first...well. The point I am trying to make, is that there is no way that someone who was _faking_ his feelings for you could produce such artwork. These are images that could only be crafted by someone completely and utterly besotted. I won't claim to know how deep his feelings for you truly run, but you are not some blind, naive fool for trusting that his affections were real. Because I believe that they were."

She swallows, gaze darting down to the book in her lap. She's seen the drawings. Been self-conscious of some of them, not feeling half as beautiful as how she was depicted. Found humor in others, or a rush of affection for their creator. "Is this supposed to help? You sound like you're defending him."

"Hardly."

She frowns at him. "I'm supposed to be your best friend, shouldn't you be going on about how he was never good enough for me and that I deserve better?"

"I thought that went without saying. Because he's _not_ and you _do_. If you'd like, I will gladly spend what's left of the night and all of the days to come disparaging his character. We can make a list! With annotations! I do so love annotations… But I'm not going to sit idly by while you convince yourself that this was _your _fault, or that you've done something wrong. Whatever has lead him to leave you? That is _his _idiocy, not yours."

She closes her eyes to block out the sight of the book, and to help stem the tide of tears threatening to return. "It's not as simple as all that, Dorian. There are things you don't know-"

"Did you lie to him? Cheat? Manipulate? Drown a litter of puppies?"

"What?! No! Of course not!"

"Did you do anything other than love and trust him for the time that you were together?"

"I…" Daleka hesitates, because there was a moment - brief though it might have been - after the well had shown her his true face that she'd been uncertain. But in the end, she knows her feelings never truly wavered. "No."

"Then the fault lies with _him_, Daleka, not you. And I think, given the carving that you've made for him, you already know that. My job as your best friend is to make sure you _understand_." There is reassurance in the way that he squeezes her hand and leans his shoulder against hers.

"But, that doesn't really matter now, does it? What matters is that you are hurting." Her stomach chooses that moment to make itself known again, and Dorian chortles. "And that you haven't eaten - nor slept - in at least a day, I'd wager. For now, let's just focus on getting some food into that stomach of yours. Then, after a nap, we can make a bullseye with his face on it, and light it on fire, if it'll help."

She sighs out a broken laugh; so incredibly _thankful_ that he is here. "Thank you, Dorian."

He waves her off, reaching for the tray of cheeses and fruits, and placing it on her newly empty lap. She presses her palm hard against where she has the sketchbook shuffled against the outside of her thigh, knowing by the soft-lidded look he gives her that he knows where it has gone.

But he doesn't mention it. Instead he just quirks a brow as he hands her a wedge of hard cheese and says, "So, about the cook…"

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Solas takes his time returning to Skyhold. A journey that took three days out, but which reasonably could be made in two, he stretches out to a week.

The extra time a gift to both him as well as Daleka; given how things were left in the glen, he figures that a few additional days of distance could only be a benefit to them both.

This is what he tells himself.

He has always been a gifted liar.

For if he were being honest, he'd admit that he's a coward, and that his delay was based more on fear, than on anything else.

When he does return, he times his arrival for the hour before dawn, knowing that Skyhold is most at rest at that time. Despite the quiet that surrounds him as he makes his way over the bridge, he is still wary as he approaches the gate, wondering if Daleka, hurt and anger boiling her blood, may have barred his re-entry into the Hold.

Or if she may be waiting, maul in hand poised to do the barring herself.

But there is no such barrier to his admittance. The gate opens with the tilt of a guardsman's helm, and a gruff: "Greetings, Ser."

Solas finds himself equal parts relieved and disappointed that Daleka was not waiting.

He delivers his mount to a young, bleary-eyed stable-hand whose half-donned breeches and tunic indicate that he's been woken specifically for this task, while snores from the rafters announce the false Warden's continued presence among the Inquisition.

Mount cared for, Solas makes his way to the main hall where only a sparse few servants are bustling around readying it for the day, and slips undisturbed into the rotunda. His feet lead him unerringly to the lounge, where he allows himself to sink into its softness for a few stolen moments before the day begins in earnest.

He rests his head in his hands, elbows on his knees, and takes deep measured breaths. Nothing has gone to plan since he's awoken. It seems, despite his efforts, all he can ever manage is to make things _worse. _

Sighing, he reaches into the pocket by his hip, and pulls out the blood-stained figurine he'd taken from her that night on the balcony, rolling it over in his hands. A reminder of his more recent mistakes.

It's of a woman - a Dalish Keeper, if he was to hazard a guess - tiny details carved with precision into the wood, but still incomplete.

He'll cherish it though, for it might one day be all he has to remember her by.

Solas had known, from the moment Daleka first smiled at him in Haven - questioning, always, _always_ questioning - that he was in trouble. Millennia of experience to guide him, and yet in her presence he'd turned into a strutting fool. Eager to impress, a glutton for her attention.

And unwilling to deny his growing affections. No matter that he knew he should. A selfish indulgence that hurt them both in the end.

Obnoxious cawing from the rookery above draws his attention up from the figurine in his palm. The palest of orange slices through the windows near the roof, highlighting a minor scuffle between the birds that is quickly settled, nothing more. He peels his eyes away and casts his gaze around the rotunda, landing for a moment on the as yet unpainted wall he's reserved for when the Inquisitor triumphs over Corypheus.

A fresco that - when he is at his most honest - he knows he will never create. Not because he believes she will fail - never that - but because when she succeeds...when she _succeeds _and his foci is retrieved? Then -

He clenches his hand tight around the figurine, misery stabbing him at the thought of his plans actually coming to fruition. For all that the world will gain, he knows all too well what he will lose.

For while this world may have very little else to offer, it has _her_. She is _here _and real. _So very real_. And for all that he may have pushed her away, she still remains. The keeper of his heart. No matter how little he deserves it, no matter how unkind he's been to hers.

On a gust of air he slumps back on the lounge, eyes drawn to his desk in the middle of the room, upon top of which sits a most curious collection of items. Items that he knows he did not leave there.

Items that could only have been left by one person.

With stiff limbs, he crosses the space to his desk. He takes slow, measured steps, doing his best not to think about how distracted he must have been to have failed to miss the pile the moment he entered the rotunda.

The item on top is one that he is intimately familiar with, yet he still feels the need to crack the cover open and stare at one of the many images that grace its pages. Unsurprisingly, as he knows the book is filled with little else, it's an image of Lavellan in sleepy repose that greets him. One hand folded beneath her cheek, a lock of hair falling across her nose, her mouth pulled into a tiny frown. He ghosts his fingers over the graphite visage, the ache in his chest at the sight is palpable.

He closes the book and slides it to the side, reaching for the next item in the pile. A tunic he'd gladly given up as _hers. _And because he's always been quite good at torturing himself, he lifts it to his nose. The scent of her mixed with the ever-present scent of linseed and sandalwood, still strong within its folds. He releases a stuttering breath and forces himself to place it to the side as well. He'll allow himself to dwell later, when the chances of being spied upon from the aviary are less. The next two items are of little import - another tunic, and a pair of sleeping breeches, likely left behind in exchange for his robes at some point - their presence only painful in that they've been returned at all.

What lay hidden beneath those innocuous pieces of cloth, however, is far from unimportant.

He'd noted the staff when he first approached the desk, of course, though he'd forced himself to leave it for last, as was clearly intended - and now with it revealed, he finds that he is torn between wishing he'd picked it up first, and wishing he'd never laid eyes upon it in the first place.

He lifts it with reverent hands. A staff of ironbark, the equal of which he's never seen. He notes - almost absentmindedly - that its grip is notched for a hand, but still smooth, and of a height which he knows will match his own perfectly. The blade at its base, double-edged, but situated so as to allow him to still use the piece as a walking staff, as he so often does. Offensive, and yet, practical. These bits alone are evidence that this is no found piece, but was crafted with care - and with _him _in mind.

But there is so much more that he finds breath in his lungs to be a scarce thing. For the carvings along its length are intricate, mesmerizing in their detail. Jagged lines at the base roar together as a bonfire lapping at the wood. Those same carved lines give way to harsh, billowing smoke, the curvature of which clears into a soft wind, moving ever upward as it blows carefully whittled leaves into a sky torn open in a maelstrom of lightning and ice; wisps dancing at the edge. The staff thrums with power in his grip, a gentle pulsating light from a most intricately sculpted rune of cleansing - if he's not mistaken - set beneath the focus stone at the top. Around which is wrapped a figurehead that causes the remaining breath to catch in his lungs, and an invisible vise to tighten around his heart.

"Do you like it?"

Solas tenses at the sound of her voice at his back, finding that he must take a very intentional inhale of air before he can respond - and even then, his voice is not quite as steady as he'd like. "It is...exquisite. This- how long?" He tilts his head in her direction, allowing his eyes to settle upon her form where it leans back against the wall by the library stairs, the simple sight of her releases a coil of tension inside of him - not all the way - but enough that it is easier to take his next breath.

She huffs out a one-note laugh, and drops her arms from where they are crossed over her chest. "For the base? The better part of three months. And that was _after_ I managed to retrieve the wood. But the topper?" She moves towards him with slow steps, stopping just out of reach. "Well - it was going to be a griffon. In fact, I have one sitting three-quarters done, in a crate down in the undercroft still. I'd been waiting to finish it until we were able to get the right focus stone."

Lavellan makes a gesture with her hand, like a claw, clasping an invisible object. "I wanted it large enough that it would fit right beneath the talons, like it had stolen a prize and was flying off with it, you know? Dagna had to put feelers out to half a dozen guilds to get it for me." Daleka moves a step closer, and taps the final design on the head. "So, you can imagine her utter horror when I set _that_ in front of her instead, and asked her to split six pieces from the stone."

Solas swallows, and nods his head, but says nothing. Not trusting himself to speak.

"She assured me that doing so wouldn't reduce the efficacy of the stone - not with how she cut it, and how closely they're positioned to one another, and, I don't know - something about energies? She said that for a mage knowledgeable enough in how to focus such things there would be no difference." She moves her shoulders in a careless shrug that doesn't quite mask the way her arms raise protectively in front of her once more.

Solas drops his eyes to the staff, giving her the moment the gesture clearly requests. He drags a finger along the carving, following the tail where it curls about its tucked rear legs and around the back of the main focus stone, up a shoulder and over the rise and fall of first one ear, then the other, before dipping the digit against the smaller stones that make up each of the wolf's six glowing eyes, sitting in a head that appears to have just risen from a rest upon its paws. Its whole body tucked up close to the main focus. "She is correct. There will not."

"That's...that's good then." The creak of leather draws his attention up from the captivating figurehead and back onto Lavellan, only to see that she has opted to put distance between them once more. He has no one to blame for the pang the gesture causes in his chest but himself.

But she doesn't leave, and he takes a measure of comfort in that.

"How- how is the likeness? I didn't have much to work on - it took a couple of tries before I was happy with it, but...I did my best."

The statement - along with the hesitant way that it is voiced - shocks him to the point that he has to catch himself on the edge of his desk with his palm as his legs give out where he stands.

Up until that point, he had thought that - _perhaps_ \- the staff, and its figurehead, were meant not as a gift, but as a curse. A visual representation of the pain - the _hurt_ \- that he'd caused. _The Betrayer_. The stuff of Dalish nightmares. _**Harellan**__. _It would have been fitting, given how they had left things in Crestwood.

But now, with her concern over the likeness of the carving combined with how utterly non-threatening the piece appears - an atypical artistic choice for certain – along with the words that she had shouted at him in the glen, he has no choice but to accept the boldly carved reality in his hands.

She _knows._

"It is…an accurate interpretation." He runs a finger down the slope of the nose of the carving, buying time to collect his breath, and his thoughts. "I appreciate the way that he looks to have just awoken from a deep slumber. Most would have opted to have his mouth open in a snarl, maw gaping as it swallowed the world."

"Well, I think my perspective may be different from most."

Solas has never felt more exposed than he does at that moment, when he locks his gaze with hers, and finds hers unyielding. As if he's been split open and pried apart - all the better to be examined. His voice cracks when he speaks, but he does not care. There are no longer any appearances to keep up after all. Not with her. "From anyone."

She continues to hold his gaze for several beats of his pounding heart, before she nods and turns towards the door. "I should let you get back to work."

"Daleka…"

She stills, but does not turn back. "Yes?"

He scrambles for something to say, something to make her _stay_, but there are so many thoughts rambling around in his brain - _I'm sorry, forgive me, it was a mistake, I am a coward, please, I love you, could you still…how?! - _that grasping onto just one is a difficult thing. "The well?"

She steps in a half-turn towards him, her posture stiff, controlled. "In great part, yes. The well...was very insistent. I didn't want to believe it, of course. Didn't want to believe that you'd been lying to me this whole time. But - There is only so much one can deny a truth when presented with so much evidence. And in retrospect, you weren't exactly subtle."

He blinks, caught off guard. It seems that she is forever catching him off guard. Which is the only reason he can think of for why he stupidly asks, "Was I not?"

She laughs, a low soft sound that breathes warmth back into his cold lungs. She crosses the space between them to lift the wolf-jawbone talisman around his neck and hold it up for inspection before letting it drop back to his chest. "Not really, no."

Solas chuckles. "Perhaps not."

Her hand smooths down the line of his shirt beneath the cord of the talisman before pulling back to her side. He feels a sharp pang at the loss. Her voice lowers, for his ears alone. More mindful of the approaching dawn and the many ears that comes with it then he, not with how she drowns out his sense of everything else. "You should have told me."

His breath comes faster, with her so close. "I wanted to."

"Then why didn't you?"

The hand still being used to brace himself against the desk twitches with the want to reach out to her, and _touch_. "Revealing a secret of such magnitude…" He stops, shaking his head while he composes himself. "Is not as easy as it may seem."

He feels the last loose threads holding his resolve together begin to unravel as she meets his eyes, easier now that they are at a level with his as he leans against the desk. "I get that. But, Solas? Telling the woman you claimed to love your true name? It should never have _been _a secret."

"I know." He sighs, replacing the displaced air with a careful inhale as he straightens his back. "And though I know it means little, I _am_ sorry. For the deception. For hurting you. For so_ many things_."

Her gaze breaks from him, though she does not step away. He watches - transfixed - as her throat moves, her tongue darting out to moisten a dry lip as she nods. "You're right, it does mean little. But, it matters that you said it at all."

The urge to fall at her feet; to promise to do all that it takes to prove just how very sorry he is, is inexplicably strong. And so he deflects, because what good would that do? "You knew. In the glen, but you did not say."

"It was your secret to tell. Not mine."

He tips the head of the staff in their direction, unable to hold back the smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Some might call this a less than subtle tell."

She laughs again, a genuine mirthful sound. The skin at the edges of her eyes crinkling as she lifts a hand to rest on the carved wolf at the top of the staff. His blood pumps faster at the action. "Maybe. But, trust me, this is probably the most subtle of all the designs I tried out. That snarling you mentioned? That was in one of the rough drafts."

"Ahh, _ma serannas_ then for your final choice. Though, it would have been...justifiable had you chosen to go that route."

"I don't think you'd want to see what those would have looked like. I was a bit...furious, really, when I first returned. My attempts at carving reflected that. I wasted a small tree's worth of wood."

He counts off ten beats of his racing heart, uncertainty holding him in its unsteady grip. Poised to drop him over an edge, into a freefall. He willingly takes the first step before the drop. "I understand if you do not wish to say, but I am _curious_ as to what changed."

She stares at him again, crystalline pools holding no malice, nor fear. Emotions he both would expect and deserve, as opposed to the ghost of acceptance he sees in their depths.

"It's like with the vallaslin - there is so much that the Dalish got wrong. What the well showed me? About the so-called creators? It didn't match the tales the Keepers teach us. And those tales didn't match what I know about _you_. So I had to make a decision. For better or worse.

"You may not be who I thought you were, but I don't think you're someone else entirely either. And I...you _hurt_ me, Solas. I don't understand why. But that doesn't mean I can just stop _feeling_..."

She blinks rapidly, turning her head from him and he can't - _he can't _\- but he _does_. "_Vhenan_." He loses his battle with restraint and reaches out a hand, ostensibly to encircle her wrist, but thinks better of it. Letting it just graze the back in a pale imitation of what he really wants.

"Would you prefer I call you Fen'Harel?"

The sound of the name on her lips is like a punch to the gut, winding him and pressing him further back against the desk. But he cannot deny either that he likes the sound, especially when it is breathed out in such an understated manner. "You may call me what you wish, the choice is yours. Though I suspect that calling me by that name may raise a few questions amongst your followers. Ones that do not have easy answers."

"Would you answer them, if I did?"

The pitch of his voice softens at her look of resignation, as if she is bracing for an unpalatable response. It is not a look he enjoys being the cause of. "I would answer what I could."

"What if I were to ask them, now, instead? And leave everyone else out of it?"

Never in his wildest imaginings had he planned for such a conversation. Even when he'd made his tentative plans to confess, he'd not pictured her quietly asking him to _explain_.

Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. Those were responses he'd been prepared for - only, he'd received all of those, hadn't he? When he'd opted to break her heart rather than tell her the truth. Certain that it was the right choice. The _only_ choice.

Oh, but what a _fool _he has been.

"What would you know of me, _Vhenan_?"

"_Everything_."

Uncertainty relinquishes its hold on him at the request; he does nothing to fight the fall. In the end, it's a rather simple thing to just let go. "_Ma nuvenin_."

Her eyes widen, a brightness overtaking their previously glassy state, and he knows that - better or worse, as she had said - _this time _he is making the right choice.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

There are stories - legends in the making - whispered about the leader of the Inquisition. Tavern songs and chantry-styled verses being passed from ear to ear amongst the people of Thedas, carried as easily as pollen on the wind.

And while, as with all legends, these stories have a kernel of truth, with each telling the exploits of the oft-named 'Herald of Andraste' grow ever wilder; expanding in size until they grow so large that they threaten to bury their subject under the weight of expectation.

But the tale about the Herald falling in love with the Dread Wolf of Dalish lore? That one is absolutely true.

What the tales often miss, however, is that the Dread Wolf?

Loved her _back_.

_-Excerpt from a First Edition copy of 'Legends of Thedas: Collected Tales' by Varric of House Tethras_

~End

* * *

**Elvish Translations:**

_fenedhis:_ A general Elvish curse

_Harellan_: Trickster

_ma serannas_: thank you

_Vhenan_: Heart

_Ma nuvenin_: As you wish


End file.
